


Plus One

by Neurotoxia



Series: Inked & Bloody: Remix 'verse [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Humor, M/M, Teasing, Weddings, underhanded tactics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 16:10:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12084564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia
Summary: For some reason, Sherlock keeps following Victor around with a measuring tape and a set of strange questions.





	Plus One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crookedspoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/gifts).
  * Inspired by [happiness is impossible (to measure)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1732889) by [crookedspoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon). 



> Crookedspoon needed fifty gifts, so fifty gifts they shall get. I'm not sure how much sense this fic will make if you haven't read the others in the respective series. I recommend knowledge of [nothing is more serious than pleasure](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1218862) and [happiness is impossible (to measure)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1732889). At this point, I'm not sure what is still headcanon or scribbled into a notebook and what has actually been put into writing. 
> 
> Anyone who reads this anyway, thank you so much <3

“Do you own a suit?”

Victor nearly jumps a foot into the air, just in time pulling the machine away from the skin before he ends up ruining the outline of the hummingbird he's putting on his client’s neck. 

“Jesus, make some noise, Sherlock,” he groans, lifting his shoe from the pedal and the whirring of the machine quiets. “What?”

“A suit,” Sherlock repeats, over-emphasising and drawing out both words as if he were speaking to a child or stupid person. Granted, Sherlock thinks everyone's stupid so it’s more that he’s usually fighting the impulse to talk like that all the time. “Do you own one?”

“No,” Victor says, wondering why the hell Sherlock is asking about suits now. “Why?”

“Of course you don't.” Sherlock’s sigh is deep, like a man equal parts offended and disappointed, and yet not really surprised by it. He shakes his head and pulls out a notepad, scribbling as he walks away, muttering under his breath.

“The hell?” Victor calls after him through the empty doorway.

Victor supposes he shouldn’t wonder. It’s Sherlock after all and trying to follow his train of thought is nigh impossible. It only gives you a headache since Sherlock’s train of thought is less of a train (that would mean neat lines of tracks and ordered schedules to follow) and more of a seventeen-year-old high school boy on acid stealing his father’s Ferrari. Disaster waiting to happen.

Probably just a project.

  


* * *

  


Hours later, Victor startles awake, disoriented and squinting. Sherlock is hovering above him, penlight clenched in his teeth and holding the metal end of a tape measure to the inside of his thigh. The cool metal tip is what had ripped him from sleep.

“Jesus, fuck,” Victor groans and rubs a hand over his face.

“Hold still,” Sherlock mumbles, words distorted by the torch in his mouth. “I’m measuring your inseam.”

“At three in the morning?” Victor whines.

“It’s two,” Sherlock corrects and grabs Victor’s ankle when he tries to pull his leg away.

“What. Ever,” Victor says. He can’t read the clock on his night stand without his glasses and the exact time really wasn’t the point of his objections. “Let me sleep, you muppet.”

“This was much easier when you were asleep, so by all means, do.”

“Turn off the bloody light,” Victor grumbles, 0.3 seconds away from grabbing the torch from Sherlock’s mouth and throwing it across the room. Or just toss Sherlock across the room still attached to the torch.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but relinquishes his hold on Victor’s ankle and takes the light from his mouth. He turns it off with a flick of his wrist and crawls back under the covers, sticking his cold feet against Victor’s calf.

“Piss off,” Victor mutters, almost back to sleep, but he doesn’t move his legs away.

  


* * *

  


“June?” Victor rasps, chest heaving and hands still firmly holding onto Sherlock’s hips who’s sitting astride him, trying to get some more friction while Victor is still hard. “What?”

“The third weekend,” Sherlock hums absentmindedly and squirms some more against Victor’s pinning hands. “Take it off.”

Victor lifts Sherlock a little, which isn’t easy -- Sherlock may be lanky, but he’s tall -- and twists them around, slipping out of Sherlock while he puts him on his back. They groan in unison and Sherlock keeps twitching because he hasn’t come yet. The wet tip of Sherlock’s erection is poking Victor in his belly. Victor rubs against him, brief and aborted movements because he loves to tease Sherlock when he gets the chance.

“Why?” 

Sherlock whines, protesting Victor’s decision to stop moving and shoves at Victor’s shoulder in an attempt to make him move down and take care of Sherlock’s predicament.

“Nuh-uh,” Victor chides, fingers breaching Sherlock, still loose and wet. “Not before you tell me.”

Sherlock glares murder at him, but Victor only needs to move the three fingers inside him to make Sherlock’s eyelids flutter shut and wring a strangled groan from his throat.

“If you plan on coming tonight,” Victor says with a grin and leans down to close his teeth around Sherlock’s nipple, tongue playing with the piercing for just long enough to have Sherlock writhing again, “start talking.”

“I should get someone else to come with me,” Sherlock hisses and pushes back against Victor’s fingers, valiantly attempting to get himself off.

“Come with you where?” Victor stresses his question with a firm brush against Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock tries to arch up from the bed only to find himself still pinned down.

“London,” Sherlock says, clipped and frustrated and Victor loves it even more when Sherlock is just about to lose it. “If I promise to tell you later, will you _please_ get a move on?”

“Since you’ve said ‘please’,” Victor laughs and slithers down to finally take Sherlock into his mouth.

  


* * *

  


Victor hates it when Sherlock smokes in bed, but this is Sherlock’s bed so Victor can’t make him go smoke at the open window. He could try, but Sherlock wouldn’t listen. He barely listens when Victor asks in his own home. Though really, smoking is probably the least hazardous thing in the toxic waste dump that is Sherlock’s flat. There’s a reason Victor doesn’t stay here often. There’s a considerable chance that the mold will stage an uprising one day. Or make Sherlock their king -- it’s a fifty-fifty chance and both are equally terrifying.

“Your brother?” Victor asks again. “The stick-up-his-arse one who came into the shop a while back?”

“Given that I only have one brother, yes.”

Sherlock tips his cigarette against the rim of an old mug to get rid of the ash and takes another long drag.

“He found someone to marry him?”

“Apparently,” Sherlock says around the filter.

“And we’re sure she’s human?”

“Unless artificial intelligence has made leaps in recent years that passed me by, it seems he managed to con a human being into marriage,” Sherlock hums and flicks his cigarette into the small puddle of cold tea at the bottom of his mug where it dies with a wet hiss. “I wonder what sort of blackmail material he has on her.”

“And now you have to attend the wedding?” Victor asks.

“As my mother in no uncertain terms told me,” Sherlock grumbles. “Barring death, I am to attend. And if I don’t, she’ll bring about my demise herself.”

Sometimes, Victor wonders what kind of woman Sherlock’s mother is. Raising boys like Sherlock and Mycroft must have been a job appropriate for a small army. Maybe their father is the strict one? Sherlock doesn’t say much about either of them. 

“Was that what the weirdo behaviour with the measuring tape was about?” Victor asks and raises an eyebrow.

“You need a suit,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly and leans over Victor to grab the tub of ointment sitting on a low table, half-buried by a stack of papyrus Sherlock made from scratch a week ago. Whatever the guy needed papyrus for. “Undermining the dress code would be too boring.”

Victor snorts. “And it didn’t occur to you to just ask me if I’d come with you instead of trying to lure me to London under false pretenses?”

“Would you have said yes?” Sherlock asks as he rubs ointment onto the patch of skin they tattooed yesterday. Victor isn’t quite happy with the colour of the skull yet. He wants the blood red to pop more, but that pigment has a tendency to heal a little flat on the first layer. He’ll need to go back in for a second.

“I might have considered it,” Victor says and pulls Sherlock’s arm up to eye level for closer inspection. No scabs, minimal swelling. It seems to be healing up alright. “Though I’m pretty sure your brother wouldn’t particularly want me there.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything in return, so Victor looks up to find Sherlock scrutinising him.

“Is that why you wanted to bring me?” Victor asks. “To annoy your brother?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock mutters. “And the rest of the relatives. There’s a segment of the extended family that makes Mycroft look like a frivolous liberal in comparison. Usually, they prefer to pretend that I don’t exist.”

“Of course you’d love to rub their faces in it now that you have a chance,” Victor chuckles. His own family is dreadfully boring in this regard -- thank god. The worst he ever got was benevolent homophobia from some cousins. “Fine, I’m in.”

Sherlock perks up.

“On one condition,” Victor amends and Sherlock narrows his eyes with suspicion. “I’ll teach you to do the septum so you can do one on me for the wedding and I get to wear a tie with tiny skulls.”

Sherlock looks honestly surprised, which is so rare that Victor can just about stop himself from barking out a laugh. As if Victor wouldn’t pounce on a chance to shock the delicate sensibilities of old English money. After a minute of gathering his jaw from the floor, Sherlock’s face transforms into a delighted grin, eyes sparkling with mischief. Uh-oh.

“Deal,” he says and pulls Victor into a filthy kiss.

This will be fun. Or a complete trainwreck.

So a regular Tuesday, basically.


End file.
